Thirst is a dryness that floats from the throat : a snow that burns everything like a voiceless cold fire, a pure river polluted with a meaningless existence,a reality that drinks bottles of dreams without regret,a death caressed ominously with warm hands,a shadow unloved in the brightest sunlights.
It is a blessing and it is a curse.
It is just a human sometimes,
too much loved.
I kiss every sparkle of light
with my dark pupils:
A river smelling of forgotten touches
can only be cold,
my blood can only hold a limit of warmth
in every dream,
A little more
and my heart shall melt,
like the sun who devoured fire
just to forget
the kiss of the seas.
Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time,
The day is still leaving
the night has yet to arrive,
figurations of mist
at the turn of the corner,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say
with eyes open inward, asleep
with all five senses awake,
it’s raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
what we are and are,
the days and years, this moment,
weightless time and heavy sorrow,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
wet asphalt is shining,
steam rises and walks away,
night unfolds and looks at me,
you are you and your body of steam,
you and your face of night,
you and your hair, unhurried lightning,
you cross the street and enter my forehead,
footsteps of water across my eyes,
listen to me as one listens to the rain.
Your presence,
Is a dance without a hymn,
A ballad without a bend,
a winter without an end:
where I curl up by the fogged glasses
to forget the warmth, sun offered me once.
The bright of your eyes are the shy autumn and mysterious fall.
Your absence,
Is a sigh without despair,
A rain without the air,
A summer with ominous ends:
My smile sometimes pretends.
For time becomes a path,
and journey is measure in memories.
I become a monk and a thief,
looking for peace, settling for grief.
The city lights of November,
after walking you home —
I will remember them,
As much as I’d like to forget.
It never stopped raining,
Never.
A red sky,
dissolves in blue
the sun’s hue
turns to a dripped nectar.
The leaves do not wither,
The soil is never dry.
The air smells like
someone I knew,
It was a dream,
too good to be true.
you are most beautiful
when you sleep–
when the coffee-toned notes of your skin
brew, a silent language
while your perfect lips are too tired to doubt my eyes
now, the dark mist of your breath
trickles down my neck
I wait,
I stare at you
unwaveringly.
outside there is a trail of rain,
and the wind
in the willow cage
whispers
as if it dares to tell
the moon and
all the listening night
that this silverlight should not
touch you, in front of me.
Writings to Heaven 